This was not the amiable man in business casual I had seen before. Here and now, Brendan Maddox radiated danger and the ability to do immediate and painful damage. He stalked forward, hands open at his sides. An electric tingle crawled across my skin, making the hairs on my arms stand on end.

"You don't frighten me, warlock." Vamp Boy tightened his grip on my forehead and chest. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.

"Really?" Brendan's lips curled into a tight smile. "I'll have to try harder."

I didn't see what happened. Blinding light flooded the alley, pouring warmth across my skin. Vamp Boy screamed. The iron grip on my head and shoulders vanished. I catapulted forward and slammed against the wall. It hurt like h.e.l.l, but at least now I could breathe and stand and turn around in the suddenly floodlit alley.

A fiery golden ball floated above our heads, like a miniature sun. I smelled cooking meat, and I realized it was a miniature sun.

Impressive.

Whatever else Angeletta was, she was not a coward, because she leapt straight for Brendan. Now that I could see, I s.n.a.t.c.hed up the wooden packing crate lying beside the club door and bashed it over her head. She screamed, staggering back under Brendan's sun. Something sizzled. I smelled pork and my stomach turned over yet again.

But that light did not come without effort. Brendan had one hand in the air, his face twisted in concentration and pouring sweat. Vamp Boy took a swing at him, connected with his gut. Brendan gaped soundlessly and the light went out.

"Oh, this is going to taste soooo gooood. . . ."

Angeletta laughed and I hit her again. This time she went down to her knees. I charged past her, brandishing what was left of my crate. Vamp Boy had grabbed Brendan by the hair and was dropping in for the bite. I screamed. Vamp Boy laughed and someone hollered something I didn't understand.

Brendan shot a hand out. Vamp Boy flew backward and hit the wall. About six feet off the ground. Right over a poster for Midnight Moon. Now it was Vamp Boy's turn to scream. He slid down the bricks and the instant he hit the pavement Brendan was on top of him. Metal flashed in the warlock's hand and he pressed the knife to Vamp Boy's throat.

Angeletta's scream joined the chorus. I teetered, clutching the last sc.r.a.p of my rapidly disintegrating crate.

Turned out I didn't need it. Anatole Sevarin held Angeletta by the collar b.u.t.tons, at arm's length, about six inches from the ground. She kicked furiously, which might have done some good if she hadn't lost both her stiletto pumps. As it was, she couldn't do anything but pummel Sevarin's shins mercilessly with her bare heels.

Brendan seemed to take this in stride, but that might have been because he was a little preoccupied with kneeling on the Vamp Boy's back and pressing his s y, undead face against the concrete.

"Do I frighten you now, nightblood?" Brendan's voice trembled with effort and anger.

"Mrmph!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't hear that." Brendan lifted Vamp Boy's head an inch off the concrete and his silver blade dug deeper into the vampire's sagging flesh.

"Yes," croaked Vamp Boy. "Yes, you frighten me."

"Very good." Brendan glanced at Sevarin, who shrugged. "Now, unless you want this to be your last night on earth, take Suzy and get out of here."

Sevarin unceremoniously dropped Angeletta. She hit the ground, staggered and snarled at him. In response, Sevarin opened his arms, and his mouth. For the first time I saw his bared fangs, long, slim and sharp as a cobra's. But that wasn't so bad. What was bad was the menace that rolled off him like a cloud. This was Death in a dark alley-and he was ready to take on all comers.

Brendan barely got out of the way in time as the vamplette duo fled down the alley. As soon as they did, the warlock slumped back against the wall. The streetlight made him look nearly as pale as a vampire, and he pressed the heel of his hand against his side as he struggled to catch his breath.

And he'd just saved my life. I dropped the crate sc.r.a.p and wiped my sweating, splintery hands on my pants.

"What are you doing here?"

Probably I didn't communicate as much grat.i.tude as I felt right then, because he rolled his eyes in something that looked a lot like exasperation. "I was following you."

"Why?"

"So I could find out why you were going from hanging out with Anatole Sevarin to walking into a bite-easy."

"I-" I meant to say it was none of his business, but under the circ.u.mstances it kind of was. Before I could think of a new sentence to go after that initial syllable, the wail of sirens cut me off.

"Cops!"

The shout came from the roof maybe, or farther down the alley. It was impossible to tell. A second later, though, a flash of red and blue light out front was met by the sound of running feet around back.

"It is time to leave," announced Sevarin to Brendan and me.

"I'm not running. I-"

I didn't get any further. Sevarin grabbed me by the waist and shoulders, tossed me across his back in a fireman's carry, and took off running, right behind Brendan Maddox.

The night had definitely gotten away from me.

So as it turns out, being thrown over a pair of lean masculine shoulders and carried away bodily is nowhere near as s.e.xy as one imagines.

I couldn't see where we were going. Walls rose up close and the air stank of garbage and grease. I felt Sevarin racing around corners and I hung on tight because, as much as I hate to admit it, I didn't know what else to do.

At last we emerged onto the open street. No sirens followed us. The traffic and a few pedestrians pa.s.sed by with their usual indifference.

I finally found my breath.

"Put me down!" I punched Sevarin on the arm.

"If you have the desire to beat on me for this rude abduction, I am prepared to accept my punishment." I heard the grin in his voice.

In response, I grabbed his ear and twisted, hard. His mouth opened, his knees buckled, and I slid to the ground out of his loosened grip.

A word to the wise: do not mess with an experienced older sister.

"You really should have known that was coming," remarked Brendan as he reached into the pocket of his jacket and brought out a PowerBar.

"I expect you are correct." Sevarin straightened. "Next time I will be prepared."

"How have you survived for centuries at this level of jacka.s.sedness?" I asked as I straightened my blouse and tried to find where my dignity had gotten itself to.

"Please. It's roguish charm." Sevarin ran a hand over his hair. He'd lost his hat somewhere during the festivities and his hair gleamed gold in the streetlight. "And I can attest that as a survival strategy it works very well."

"I thought your kind had settled on broody angst." Brendan peeled back the foil on his PowerBar and took an enormous bite.

Sevarin shook his head. "Lord Byron and Bram Stoker between them have a great deal to answer for."

"You can take it up with them when you see them." My head was spinning. I was sure we should actually be talking about something else, but I couldn't get my thoughts to settle down long enough to remember what it was.

"Oh, I have. They've been shacked up together in Budapest since 1904."

"That is not true," I snapped.

Sevarin shrugged. "If it gives you comfort to believe so, please do."

Brendan had the nerve to snicker around a mouthful of granola and preservatives.

"Did you bring enough of that for the whole cla.s.s?" I asked.

"Magic-working burns calories at an accelerated rate," Brendan told me. He did look pale, and n.o.body eats the cardboard that masquerades as "power food" that fast unless he's starving.

"I think we three need to talk," said Sevarin. "May I suggest your place, Maddox?"

"Mine?"

"Charlotte has roommates, and while I would love to entertain you both in my home, I think you would be more comfortable in your own."

"Point." Brendan stuffed the last of the bar in his mouth. "I'll get us a cab."

Brendan gave the cabbie an address on Grand between Broadway and Crosby in SoHo. This told me he made way the h.e.l.l more money than I did even before I saw the place. I'd worked in lofts like his as a personal chef but had never been in one as a guest. Windows opened in every wall. During the day, this place would be filled with sunlight to show off the blond wood floors covered with Persian rugs, the white walls and the framed art-a lot of which I suspected was original. The s.p.a.ce had been dressed in b.u.t.ter-soft leather furniture and oak bookcases.

I did notice that only the books looked well used, and my glimpse of the kitchen showed immaculate granite counters reflecting the track lighting. This was a showpiece, and I was willing to bet that the microwave saw more action than the professional-grade cotop did. Brendan's high-priced loft was a stopping place, not a living place.

"Very nice." Sevarin settled onto a leather sofa, legs crossed at the knee and arm stretched over the back, looking perfectly at home. "You do well for yourself. Or is this a family property?"

"No, it's mine." There was a bar topped with decanters and bottles just like you'd see on a movie set of a rich man's home.

"Can I get you anything?" Brendan reached into the mini-fridge underneath the bar and pulled out a can of Zap Energy Drink.

"No, thanks." I winced and averted my eyes.

"I'm fine," added Sevarin, and smiled when Brendan glowered at him. Then Sevarin turned to me. "Did you learn anything from Shelby?"

I rubbed my arms. Don't tell them. None of their business. They don't need to know. This is between me and Chet.

"Did you?" asked Brendan.

I had the uncomfortable impression that Brendan at least was waiting for me to lie. I studied the immaculate floorboards. He'd just saved my life. They both had. What was I supposed to think about them now?

Why did my life even need saving? No. Don't get paranoid. I was in an alley by a bite-easy, even if it was only a tourist joint. I know better.

Brendan sighed and took another swallow of the entirely artificial high-fructose corn-syrup liquid. "Do you know those two from the alley?" he asked Sevarin.

"Actually I do, nasty little creatures that they are. Julie and Tommy Jones. Brother and sister, low-intelligence, longtime troublemakers."

"Wait," I cut in. "Her name is really Julie?"

Sevarin nodded.

"I knew it had to be something like that." Okay, it was a small victory, but I was very short on things to feel good about right then.

Brendan rolled his eyes and took another utterly unhealthy swallow of Zap. My stomach roiled in sympathy. "Professional or amateur trouble?"

"Before tonight I would have said amateur." Sevarin rotated his ankle in a circle a few times, thinking. "But that may have changed. What is your opinion, Charlotte?"

That startled me. "Charlotte?"

"I rescued you from the smiling jaws of death. I think we can be on a first-name basis."

This was probably reasonable, but I was in no mood to admit it. "I bet you were an annoying little brother."

"Incredibly so. But what do you think of the status of your a.s.sailants?"

There are times when words are like a door closing behind you. Once spoken, they cut off the last exit. I remembered standing in the dark years ago. I remembered other eyes, livid and hungry, waiting for my words. I'd felt frightened and hollow like this then, my mouth dry and my throat tight. But that other time, I'd spoken the words anyway.

"Chet's got some kind of deal going down with Bert Shelby," I said. "He got Taylor Watts a job in the bar, and he gave them the menu from Nightlife."

"I'm sorry," said Brendan.

"Yeah." I rubbed my arms. "The problem is . . . The problem is, if the attack wasn't a coincidence. . . ." I did not want to say this. I did not want to think this. I wanted this entire evening to just go away. "I can't see anybody wanting me drained just because I found out they copied my menu."

The men remained silent as we all turned this very, very uncomfortable thought over in our minds. Brendan raised the can of Zap to his mouth again, and suddenly it was all too much to bear.

"Gimme that!"

I s.n.a.t.c.hed the can from his fingers and headed for that pristine kitchen. He had to have real food in that gigantic stainless-steel fridge. Everybody had something. Orange juice. Great. Strawberry yogurt. My G.o.d, the man truly was of the metros.e.x clan, or he had a girlfriend who came round for breakfast. Don't think about that now. A lime at the end of its lonely life lay in the otherwise empty fruit drawer. Who keeps a single lime in their fridge anyway? He must drink gin and tonic. Ice? Yes. Bananas. On a cute little hook next to the fridge. Fabulous. Blender? Blender, under the counter, with the price tag still on it. Pinch of salt for brightness and to cut the sweet, and squeeze the lime in through the top.

While the blender did its work, I dumped the remains of the energy drink down the sink where it belonged, pitched the can into the compactor and found a gla.s.s in the cupboard. I poured it full of smoothie and shoved it across the counter to Brendan.

He looked at me. I looked at him. He wanted to protest, but evidently thought better of it and instead drained a good half of the gla.s.s. His color looked better at once. I got myself a gla.s.s. It had been a rough night.

"And have you anything for me, Charlotte?" Sevarin let his gaze linger meaningfully on my neck.

"Sorry." The smoothie wasn't bad at all. Needed some herb flavor. Lemongra.s.s? And I could have zested the lime in there if it had been less mummified.

"Ah, how I suffer." Sevarin laid his hand on his chest.

Brendan rolled his eyes and changed the subject. "What do you know about Post Mortem?" he asked Sevarin.

"About what you do, I expect. It has a human owner, but some nightblood investment. Second-rate food, music rather too loud, decor in the worst possible but most expected taste. If you are hungry but not interested in the uncertainties of hunting, it is a place to find volunteers."

"Is that from the review you published?" I poured the dregs of the smoothie into Brendan's gla.s.s.

"Some of it," admitted Anatole.

"Do you know who the nightblood investors are?"

Anatole shrugged. "Before this, I never cared. But I can find out."

"Could one of them be Chet Caine?" Brendan asked the question to his gla.s.s.

I shook my head. "Chet doesn't have money to invest. He's only been able to make the rent reliably for about six months."